Table of Contents
by Uncle Charlie
Summary: You never know who might turn up on Dr. Mallard's autopsy table. Written for the 13 Days of Halloween Challenge


Doctor Donald 'Ducky' Mallard walked into his autopsy room and glanced over at the empty steel tables. Except one wasn't empty.

"Jimmy," he muttered under his breath. While it wasn't all that rare to come in and find a body waiting for him. It was odd that it be fully clothed and not even draped with sheets. Either his assistant had been in an incredible hurry before leaving, which was possible, or the victim had come in after hours. Even so, there was a proper protocol to follow.

Ducky sighed and hung up his hat and coat, then headed back to his locker to change into his work clothes. He was in no real hurry. After all, it wasn't like the body was going to jump up and try to catch a train.

He pulled a light green surgical cap over his head and walked back into the exam room. He turned on the recorder and began to speak.

"Male, probably between the ages of 25 to 30. Weight, 170 to 175, height 5'9" approximately. Blond hair, distinct features, no outward signs of trauma." He shut off the recorder and, as a matter of course, Ducky checked for a pulse. There was none, but he liked to play it safe. He reached for a pair of scissors and with a practiced hand, he lifted the hem of the worn tee shirt and began to cut.

"Oi, that's me best shirt."

Ducky looked up and stumbled back a few steps as the corpse sat up. A twinge in his chest made him clutch it and he fell back against a chair, dropping into it, a grimace of pain on his face.

The corpse swung its legs over the edge and looked around. "Not the best place I've picked to sleep off a hangover. You okay, mate?" The body grinned. "You look like you've seen a ghost… or worse."

"My heart," Ducky mumbled and dug through the desk drawer. He found and popped a nitroglycerin tablet, then shut his eyes against the pounding in his ears. Everything was swirling and dancing around him and then nothing.

When he woke up, he was stretched out on one of his autopsy tables, his face damp. The corpse, no, the man, was mopping his face with a wet towel. "Do I need to call someone?"

Ducky took a deep breath and shook his head. "No. It was just the surprise of the moment. I don't usually get that reaction from my clientele."

"So I gathered. I'm William, but the way, but my friends call me Spike."

"Hello, William," Ducky murmured as he attempted to sit up. Spike was by his side in an instant to help. "I am Donald Mallard, but my friend call me Ducky."

"That's sort of mean spirited."

"It's a play on the name, Donald Duck. American humor." He got off the table and Spike steadied him. "But how, you were dead."

"Well, my mum always said I was a sound sleeper." Spike smiled at that. "Your last name is Mallard? You English?"

"I beg your pardon, Scottish." Ducky pulled himself up to his full height which was still inches behind Spike. Age had not been kind to him in that regard.

"Right." Spike grinned. He'd come across more than one Scotsman in his time with that attitude. "Anyway, my mum was a Mallard. 'Til she got married, course." Spike patted his pockets for cigarettes, then remembered he'd given up smoking a lifetime ago… for Buffy. God, how he missed her.

"Now it is my turn to ask if you are all right.'

Spike grinned and waved him away. "Thinking 'bout a girl."

"I know the feeling well. What was your mother's name?"

That stopped Spike. "I dunno. I always just called her mum."

Ducky laughed at that. "I know what you mean. It's hard to think of our parents as people."

"Some of us more than others." Ducky walked over to his computer and turned it on. "I'm working on my family tree. Perhaps if you could tell me when she was born."

"I really don't think…" Spike looked up at the ceiling. "I'm older than I look."

Again Ducky laughed. "So am I. I'm afraid my co-workers would call the morticians if I told them how old I really am." He gestured Spike closer.

Spike pulled back and looked him up and down. "You got good genes, but I still have you beat."

Ducky chuckled, "How about a small wager, then?"

"I'm game."

"I was born in 1933!" Ducky announced proudly.

"Really good genes, but you've lost. I was born in 1853."

"Impossible! That would make you 16—"

Spike turned away from him "You aren't the only one with good genes." Spike then turned back, game face in place. "'Course being a vampire helps."

"But… but… there's no such thing."

Spike pointed to his face and then opened his mouth to display his fangs. Ducky was out of the chair and stumbling towards the door. "Just cause you ain't bumped into one of us before, doesn't mean we ain't so." He shook his head and his regular features settled back in to place. "Don't worry, Doctor. I gave up human blood a long time ago."

"Since when?"

"Since I saw a demon about a soul. After that, it didn't seem right killing folks. Course, if you have a spare pint or two lying around, I wouldn't mind taking that as my bet's winnings."

"I thought you said you gave it up?"

"Yeah, but I can trade it for other stuff. Vampires need other stuff." He looked over at the computer. "Carolyn."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Carolyn. My mum's name was Carolyn Violet Mallard before she took the leap."

Jimmy walked into the autopsy room.

"Morning, Dr. Mallard." He stopped. Ducky was hunched over a computer with a stranger. "Sorry, I didn't know you had company."

"Ah, Jimmy, I'd like to introduce a relative of mine. This is William. William, this is my colleague, Jimmy Palmer."

"Donny was telling me about you." Spike shook Jimmy's hand.

"Oh, okay, so are you two cousins or something like that?"

"Something like that." Spike looked over at his great, great, great nephew and smiled. After so long, it was good to have family again, real family. He could tell by the glow in Ducky's cheeks that he felt the same way. Or it could be the scotch they'd been sharing for the last hour, but it didn't matter to Spike or, indeed, to Ducky. After all family is family.


End file.
